Reflections of Faramir
by Valante
Summary: A collection of standalone Faramir-centric shorts, inspired by OAA's weekly prompts. Just fragments of attempted insight into the mind and spirit of a brave, kind-hearted man.
1. Warm

_Written for the Aragorn Angst weekly prompt: Warm_

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**Warm**

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The lesser son of the steward was lying in a daze. His hold on his surroundings was feeble and twisted, as if his mind's fingers were broken. Muffled sounds grew louder and softer in waves. Actions registered in jerky, delayed intervals. Colors slurred and swirled.

He felt his father's welcome presence at his side. The steward was shouting in a distorted voice; Faramir was so used to his rants that he tuned out the words. Somewhere far away, a rough surface dug into the back of his sprawling body.

His sense of smell remained surprisingly intact. He recognized the sourness of blood and sweat, and the fertile, tangy aroma of olive oil.

Something bright and blurred fell through his field of vision and past it. Delay. Then orange swirls leapt up all around.

It was warm, so warm that his skin tingled and his lips cracked and his bile rose at the stench of burnt hair.

He'd never felt so cold in his life.


	2. Survivor

_Written for the Aragorn Angst weekly prompt: Survivor_

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**Survivor**

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The field is choked with bodies, countless bodies, Gondorians and Rohirim and Southrons and Orcs and Trolls, twisted and broken, all made equally grotesque by death. The blood-soaked ground squelches under every step. Nothing grows there; nothing can, under the oppressive blanket of decay. If you look close enough, you'll see an army of insects and vermin seething among the corpses, nibbling, nibbling, nibbling, not for hunger but for morbid fascination, like pushing a sore tooth with your tongue or peeling the scab off a wound.

If you look close enough.

Most people don't. Most people only see Faramir's quiet air and gentle smile, and think, "There goes a true survivor of the war."


	3. Trespass

_Written for the Aragorn Angst weekly prompt: Trespass_

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**Misstep**

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He's getting accustomed to kinghood. Elrond has taught him how to study—a priceless gift here, among the endless archives and law books of the White City. A priceless gift in his dealings with the nobles and their equally endless dances and unwritten rules.

Sometimes he wearies of watching his every step and word. He'd never realized the extent of freedom that had come with his Ranger days. Here in Minas Tirith, he craves for someone he may talk to without restraint.

Ah, but there's Faramir.

He loves the light that kindles in his steward's eyes whenever he opens a conversation, in the evening privacy of his study.

"What do you think of the The Lay of Leithian?" he asks.

And he asks, "What was it like, being Mithrandir's pupil?"

And once, squirming over a pang of longing for his Elven family, he asks, "Do you miss your father?"

No light kindles in Faramir's eyes at that; smoothness pours down his face like a wax mask. And Aragorn notes to himself, among his many learned lessons, never to trespass upon that wounded ground again.


	4. Visions

_Written for the Aragorn Angst weekly prompts: King & Grateful_

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**Visions**

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Boromir had imagined a king in Minas Tirith, Faramir knew, though not in the same way as Faramir. His brother had imagined himself on the throne, leading a united Gondor in a glorious battle against the East, taking the enemy's war to its own gates.

Such had been Boromir's vision.

Faramir missed his brother, but he did not miss his dream of kinghood, had never agreed with it. He would have served his brother had the dream come to pass. Reluctantly? Perhaps. Not with a clear conscience, at the least. For in his heart, Faramir had always been waiting for another king.

His own vision of this king: a man of legend, tall and regal, stern and wise. Faramir would have served him with every fiber of his soul, however frayed; would have toiled silently and endlessly in his favor, day and night. And if this king, now and then, would have nodded acknowledgement at him at the end of a long day—well, Faramir would have needed nothing else.

Such had been his own vision.

Sitting on the carpet at Elessar's feet, his head resting against the king's knee and Elessar's hand on his shoulder, both of them reading documents of state in the warm glow from the fireplace, Faramir swelled with gratitude for how both visions paled next to the true return of the king.


	5. Voices Past and Present

_Written for the Aragorn Angst weekly prompt: Listen_

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**Voices Past and Present**

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The council chambers looked oddly serene in the aftermath of the heated discussion. Faramir had expected overturned chairs, scratches on the ancient table where gauntlets might have banged on wood, wine-stains on the walls where goblets might have crashed.

Might have.

He hadn't been there for the debate over the budding commerce with Harad, a fact which even now twisted his guts in knots and rode like a heavy ember in his chest, sending heat in lapping waves over his cheeks. He stood by the open doors as the nobles filed out, his head bowed. Even so, he could feel their stares, hear their thoughts.

"Ah, the lesser son of the Steward, arrived at last."

"Could not even bother himself to attend a meeting, that one."

"My Lord Steward?"

"Better so; I hardly mourn his lack of contribution."

"Faramir!"

Faramir snapped his head up, found King Elessar standing before him with a frown upon his tired face. Startled, he began to bow; remembered that the king disliked such obeisance from him, and turned it into a deep nod of his head, feeling his cheeks flame anew.

"Your Highness," he said, keeping his voice under steely control.

"The East take you, can't you remember simple court etiquette?"

"Pardon?"

"I said," the king repeated in a patient voice, "you may call me Elessar or Aragorn when we're in private."

"Oh." Faramir shook his head, though he scarcely succeeded in clearing it. "My humble thanks, Sire."

A faint sigh, either amused or exasperated. "Can you do nothing right, boy?"

Faramir struggled to muster his concentration, but before he could speak again, the king turned from him. Faramir watched as the tall man, all elegant confidence, walked away with his hands laced at the small of his back.

He screwed his eyes shut. How quickly he disappointed King Elessar. For all his burning desire to serve this man to the best of his ability, to devote his life to him, he wished the king would finally acknowledge how lacking his ability was and save them both from this farce of a stewardship.

He made to go to his rooms, but realized his path would be trailing the king's for a while. Unseemly, that. ("Leave, and do not return until you've proven yourself worthy of my company—")

"Are you coming?" The king's voice nudged him out of his misery. King Elessar had paused halfway down the corridor, half-turned to regard Faramir with a raised eyebrow.

Coming? Faramir rummaged in his mind, found a whisper of a memory in the king's voice, "Walk with me." Oh. Oh! He hurried to the king's side.

"My apologies, Your Highness. I don't— I'm not—"

"For all your hours of reading, can you not speak a single sentence without stammering so?"

Faramir drew a sharp breath, gripped his left hand in his right. "My deepest apologies for missing the council meeting, Sire. I know you relied upon my report. I'm sorry for—"

"None of your excuses, boy—"

"Peace, My Lord Steward."

The two replies overlapped in Faramir's ears, so disorienting he nearly tripped. They walked in charged silence, which King Elessar broke again ever so gently. "Are you well, Faramir?"

"Now, take your brother, for example; _he _never missed a day's training because he was _not feeling well._"

"I overslept," Faramir confessed quickly and firmly. Better have it done and over with; it was the truth, after all, and any attempts to explain it would sound like excuses even in his own ears. It meant nothing, that he'd tossed and turned until the small hours of the night, then fell into the clutches of a nightmare so horrible it had kept him prisoner until now.

"Babies cry over nightmares, not soldiers. You're far from the latter, but I had rather hoped you've outgrown the former by now."

Eight, had he been then?

But not now, and it stung, how true the words still rang.

"— my friend, and I'm worried about you. Faramir, are you listening?"

"I am, Sire!"

He did, he truly did. But he could not escape the sound of his father's voice, echoing over and over and over in the crypts of his mind.


	6. Interlude

_Written for the Aragorn Angst weekly prompt: Prison. Title inspired by Chris._

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**Interlude**

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"Lothlórien," he says. And he says, "Imladris, the place they call Rivendell."

His brother chuckles. "Always the starry-eyed child, Faramir."

Faramir smiles along with him, because if anyone is allowed to call him a child, if he is still allowed to be a child with anyone, it is Boromir.

"And you?" he asks.

They're sitting side-by-side on the battlements of the Tower, and their feet dangle carelessly over the sheer drop.

"My aspirations are much plainer," Boromir says. "More kindred to a simpler man's heart."

Faramir gives him a knowing grin. "His heart?"

"And loins," his brother consents. "It's Bertha's institution for me: music, dancing, wine, and bedding. Show me an equal joy in all your elven realms, and I shall gift you my signet ring."

"Show me beauty equal to elven poetry in any brothel of Minas Tirith, and I shall gift you—"

"Hush, brother mine. Do not make wagers you cannot win."

Faramir rolls his eyes because he knows his brother expects him to, and the Lion of Minas Tirith laughs. Tiredness has loosened their tongues; midnight has come and gone long since.

"Will you spend the night there?" Faramir asks him.

"A fortnight, even. I shall relearn the White City house by house. And you?"

Faramir considers. "In truth, I don't know. Time among elves has foreign ways, I would imagine. I could be gone for years."

"You will return an elf."

"Would you love me less for pointed ears?"

"I should not love you less for an orc's muzzle."

Boromir ruffles his hair, and Faramir dutifully ducks, then snuggles sideways in the embrasure.

"I would set out on the morrow," he says into his drawn knees.

"I would go now," Boromir says, shifting to straddle the ramparts. "The night is still young."

But they remain there, waiting for Anor in long silence. And when gold chases away the predawn grayness, both rise and descend into the tower, into their rooms, into their uniforms, into the crushing embrace of command.


End file.
